Written in Sand
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: Regulus Black's last days. The one thing he had discovered was that everything, in a last, feeble attempt to leave a mark, will at least attempt to give off a vivid flash and do something earth shattering right before the end.


**Written in Sand**

He sat in a broken, faded, ancient chair that must have been comfortable once, but was now little more than bare. He was tired, scared, alone, and trying to drink away his worries in a bottle of whiskey.

_What have I done?_

It's the question that plagued Regulus his whole life, the regret and the guilt and the helplessness of his world seeping into every piece of his mind, so all he can do is wonder if the choices he made could ever have been right. It wasn't his fault.

His brother was right. He was never given a right path or a wrong path. He was always given two bad roads and was left to choose the lesser of two evils.

But instead of his brother, Regulus followed the wrong ways, and they had led him here.

It had started with a rumor, a legend. A story someone told him once, Bellatrix, he thought, of how to be immortal without a Philosopher's Stone.

_It's easy, Regulus. All you have to do is kill someone and harness their death, let it burn a little piece of your soul and trap it in an object using a certain spell. I've even done it. I'll follow my lord eternally._

_What spell?_

_Wouldn't you like to know? I'm not going to tell you. You don't have the guts to use it anyway._

She had been so gloating, so sure of herself. Well, he'd already seen to hers. It was so obvious; of course she would have turned their grandmother's dagger into a Horcrux. She'd inherited it and cherished it like it was something special.

He didn't know why he'd suddenly wanted her dead. He had just been struck with the horror of his cousin living forever, and how terrible it really would be, and he'd found that something had to be done about it.

It had been surprisingly easy.

He didn't know if Bella even knew. And, somehow, he didn't care if she did. The worst she could do was kill him, and he was as good as dead anyway.

He had managed to find the Dark Lord's. It had taken him three hours of consideration to actually feed Kreacher the potion, another to actually take it, and two more hours to get back to his house with it, after running back to the cave four times and walking slowly.

He still hadn't worked up the courage to destroy the locket. He had taken Kreacher back to his mother's home, thanking her for allowing him to help with his housecleaning, after forbidding the elf to speak of what had really happened, and there the locket had stayed.

He intended to go back for it, eventually. He'd just have to be smashed out of his skull to actually go through with it. Only an idiot or a very, very drunk man could take away something so important to the Dark Lord, and Regulus didn't consider himself an idiot.

So, the only way he'd ever finish what he had started would be to drink himself into a stupor.

Unfortunately, he was still stubbornly sober. Three-quarters of a second bottle of whiskey and he didn't even stumble when he began to pace.

He ran his hand over the dusty and shabby mantle. How he hated this place.

He could still remember when he had just bought it. Bella, Rudolphus, Rosier, and Wilkes had all gotten together and helped him move in. Rudolphus had somehow managed to get into a food fight with Rosier while cleaning out his pantry (the first place he'd furnished), which had ended when Bella had been hit with a bag of flour and started throwing hexes. It had been fun, amazingly.

Now, it just served to remind him of how far the mighty fall.

Regulus took another deep swig of the whiskey, wincing as it burned down his throat. Fitting that he should feel self-induced pain tonight.

He only had a few more mouthfuls of alcohol left in the bottle. He'd have to get more, but he didn't think he could make it anywhere now. He had been so sure that two bottles of whiskey would render him pissed out of his mind, but he couldn't remove the knowledge of what he was planning or the consequences thereof.

It terrified him and, in a way, exhilarated him all the same. He wanted to do this, he wanted to prove himself to everyone, to show the world that Regulus Black was no pushover. If only he could get himself into a drunken rage, then he could do it.

Fate, it seemed, had another idea, though. He couldn't find in himself the courage needed without intoxication, and intoxication refused to come.

It made him want to turn back. Except that there was no back to turn to. He was a dead man; no matter what way he went now. The Dark Lord was sure to know by now what he'd done. It was obvious by the angry black mark scorching on his arm. He could almost feel the hatred burning from the Dark Lord, injected into his skin, though he pretended it was paranoia. Maybe the drink was finally showing itself.

He hoped so.

Somehow, though, he figured that it was simply too much to ask of the whiskey. He had never heard of alcohol losing its edge over time, but the drink must have been blunt or he'd be falling over himself by now.

Or maybe it was just that the knowledge of what he was planning was simply sharper. Either way, his head was stubbornly clear and painfully afraid.

Something had to be done now, before they found him, before he lost his nerve completely, before his mother could find the Horcrux. It was just so much easier to look the other way and hope that the problem solved itself. None of that this time, though.

Regulus thought he heard footsteps, and panic seized him. As if in a flash, he could see all the stupid mistakes he made in his youth and young adulthood.

Throwing his brother away like a broken toy.

Listening to Bellatrix.

Accepting the Dark Lord's offer.

Walking into the initiation hall.

Allowing them to burn the mark on his arm.

Donning their masks.

Fighting their wars instead of his own.

Hiding here instead of facing his end.

Ironically enough, the one thing everyone he knew would consider a mistake was the one thing that didn't show up on his list of errors. He found that he didn't regret stealing that Horcrux. It was a step in the right direction for once.

Though, when he thought about it, not everyone he knew would call that a mistake. His brother would have been proud.

Mum used to say that his brother's name would be written in sand, forgotten in no time, whereas he, the obedient son, would be remembered for eternity. _Written in stone, _she'd said. _You'll be a legend someday._

She'd had it all wrong. Sand and stone aren't decreed by birth or obedience. It was the actions, the passion, the life of the person whose name is to be remembered. And Regulus's life, he realized, was strikingly forgettable. He didn't know if his brother would be a legend or a hero or a criminal. He didn't know if anyone in his family would ever be known in the future.

The only thing Regulus was certain of was that he would not.

He hadn't even had the courage to sign his full name, leaving initials in its place. It had scared him so much. Even though he knew that it would be obvious as soon as anyone took a second glance at the names in the Death Eaters, leaving a full-lit beacon pointing his way had felt wrong.

He tensed, ready to fight to the death (_it's what Sirius would have done)_, but nothing came. No one burst through the door or made any more sounds. He passed off the footsteps on his own heartbeat.

Like the Telltale Heart, he supposed. The man's own conscience damns him, when he could have gotten away with murder. Bella had always hated that story.

He had loved it.

His breathing slowed almost imperceptibly and he returned to his procrastination, wallowing in worry and fear when he should have been finishing what he started. Regulus found that by now, he was too tired of beating around the bush to fool himself; he'd never destroy that locket. He didn't have it in him.

All he could do was hope that his harpy of a mother didn't find it before Sirius or, even better, Dumbledore did. He didn't think they even knew what it was, though. It made him wonder if he'd only made things worse.

Footsteps, again. Closer this time. He had been wrong when he'd dismissed them. Again, his heartbeat raced and he wanted to run like a terrified animal, anywhere. Again, he knew that his courage would fall short, same as the alcohol had. It seemed that he was simply doomed to be a failure. It would have been a sobering thought if he'd been drunk.

Then again, if he'd been drunk he wouldn't have thought it.

The footsteps were closer now. He stared blankly into the fire, clutching the near-empty bottle of whiskey.

With a short grunt, he threw the bottle into the flames, watching as they flared brighter. It shattered against the back of the fireplace pleasingly, if masochistically. A fitting end to a wasted past. The footsteps sped up.

Over the past few days, he had learned the value of life, and the one thing he had discovered was that everything, in a last, feeble attempt to leave a mark in the stone rather than the sand, will at least attempt to give off a vivid flash and do something earth-shattering right before the end. Not many succeeded.

The flames had just started to die when the Death Eaters burst through the door.

_You'll be a legend someday._

He smiled.


End file.
